


Nocturne Hymn

by Antimonicacid



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Fluff, mutual pining but in a god-fearing way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:13:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27805885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antimonicacid/pseuds/Antimonicacid
Summary: After Miklan's death, Sylvain has trouble falling asleep. In the morning, Mercedes finds him camped out underneath a church pew.
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier/Mercedes von Martritz
Comments: 6
Kudos: 56





	Nocturne Hymn

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for [Winter Bear](https://twitter.com/WlNTER_B3AR?s=20)!!

The cathedral in the morning is a wash of soft light. The sun has barely risen, it’s early glow filters through the stained glass windows, tossing colorful geometric patterns against the floor, and reflecting bright off the gold coated adornments of the walkway. An early breeze weaves its way through the open door, and with it follows the scent of late summer rain. The damp air leaves a shiver in Mercedes’s bones, but she doesn’t let it dissuade her and pulls her shawl tighter around her shoulders. 

She’s not the only one milling around the cathedral. A few nuns are already making their way to pray in front of the Goddess, and a monk or two have roused themselves awake as well. It’s no less quiet, and Mercedes doesn’t mind the company of others. It’s reminiscent of home, not her stepfather’s home, but the loving warmth of the church that had welcomed her and her mother years ago. 

Before she can make her way to the statue of the Goddess, something grabs her notice from the corner of her eye. She pauses, squinting at the sight to make sure she’s seeing it correctly, before closer for a better look. A named foot pokes out from under one of the pews. She blinks in confusion at the dirty, calloused soles and ducks her head down to peek, revealing the rest of the body to her. 

“Sylvain?” she doesn’t allow her voice to crack above a whisper. When he doesn’t stir, Mercedes becomes concerned, and drops to her hands and knees she can examine him more closely. 

He’s breathing. Snoring, more accurately. His lips are parted, a soft whistling sound escapes them with every exhale of breath, only audible to those close enough to hear. 

Mercedes tickles the tip of his nose, and giggles when it scrunches up and he stirs. He looks young like this, without the grins and sweet talking ways, he’s just a boy.

“Sylvain,” she coaxes him from sleep while brushing the hair away from his eyes. “It’s time to get up.” 

It takes him a few seconds to wake up. He squirms and mumbles vague protests, but Mercedes persists and shakes his shoulder gently. At last his eyes open, and for a brief second recognition settles in, and he smiles bright and warm at Mercedes.

It doesn’t last long. He turns his head, confused by his surroundings and how he could have gotten here. In an ill advised panic he sits straight up, hitting his head against the wooden pew. 

“Shit!” he swears, rubbing the sore spot on his forehead and laying back down. 

The attention of the few other churchgoers are pulled their way, and Mercedes waves merrily in assurance that everything is fine. Whether they believe her or simply do not want to involve themselves in whatever is going on is unclear, but either way they turn their backs to the pair. 

“Did you hurt yourself?” she worries over him.

Sylvain blinks, still disoriented while he tries to process Mercedes’ question. “No, I’m fine, everything’s fine,” his answer sounds unsure. 

“Do you need help getting out? Or do you want to stay on the ground?” 

Embarrassment flushes through him as he realizes his position, and he shakes his head no before he scrambles out from under the pew. He stands quickly, and a second later, he’s helping Mercedes to her feet as well. 

He isn’t dressed for the day. He’s still in his sleeping clothes, a plain white shirt and loose fitting trousers cut off right above his knees. 

“What are you doing here?” Mercedes asks while swatting away dust from her dress. 

Sylvain scratches the back of his head. His hair is a wild mess with tufts of red sticking in random directions, only adding to the deep look of confusion creasing his features. “I’m–well, I don’t really know haha.” He doesn’t laugh, he tacks on “haha” to the end of his sentence with a shrug. 

With pursed lips, Mercedes examines him. Even if his tone is casual, there isn’t any edge of falsehood to it. He doesn’t seem to have any more of an idea for why he’s here than she does. 

“That’s okay,” she reassures him. “You should get back to your dorm though.” 

Sylvain laughs at her worry. “Yeah, of course. Think I can get a few more hours of sleep before class?” he asks. 

“I think if you’re late again that the professor is going to have your head,” she tells him honestly. 

He cringes. “You’re probably right. I’ll see you later, Mercedes.”

“Wait, Sylvain,” she grabs onto the hem of his shirt and stops him from walking away. He pauses, a dark eyebrow raised in question, as he looks at Mercedes’ small hand and waits for her to talk. 

“I know things are hard right now with everything that happened with your brother. If you need someone to talk to, or to just be near, then I’m here.” 

Without looking her in the eye, Sylvain smiles at her. “Thanks, Mercie,” he tells her. “I really appreciate it.” 

It’s not an actual answer, and that doesn’t escape her notice, but she lets it go. In the last few days since his brother’s death–since everything really–he’s probably been overloaded with well wishes and kind words. 

She won’t pretend to understand the complicated situation between Sylvain and his family, but as he walks away with a small wave in her direction, she can’t help but hope that eventually he’ll confide to her about it.

…

Prayers in the morning. Prayers before meals. Prayers as the children get ready for bed and prayers for when they awaken in the middle of the night from frightful dreams. 

The simplicity of the solution is a comfort to Mercedes. When times are rough, look to the Goddess for guidance, and she’ll be there. 

When she and her mother first arrived at the church all those years ago, there weren’t questions at first. Nobody asked about their torn, muddy clothes, or the glint of panic that sullied her mother’s gaze. The nuns had been swift in inviting them in. The priority was to get them fed and warm, and as the sisters of the church flocked around them, pushing bowls of soup into their hands and wiping away streaks of dirt and tears from their cheeks, they had also prayed. 

An ongoing monologue of blessings surrounding them. Their prayers had promised safety, shelter, and most important, love. 

No matter the complexity of the problem, Mercedes always knew that she could rely on the Goddess in times of need. Even if her support wasn’t always immediately obvious, the act of confiding in someone, anyone, felt like protection enough to her. 

It worked pretty well, for the most part. 

…

It’s three days later with the sky raining softly that Mercedes finds Sylvain once again underneath the same pew. His clothes are soaked through, but even as he shivers it doesn’t seem to deter him, as he curls into his side and sleeps.

“Oh, Sylvain,” she’s worried as she shakes him awake. He’ll surely fall ill like this. Goose pimples dot his arms in a maze of cold, intermingled amongst the light brown freckles.

“Huh?” he says as he’s pulled into consciousness. 

Mercedes helps him into a sitting position and wraps her shawl around his shoulders. He doesn’t seem fully aware of what’s happening. His eyebrows dip down as he stares straight ahead before sneezing. 

“You’re ice cold,” Mercedes scolds him while rubbing warming circles onto the exposed skin on his arms. “What are you doing here?” she asks. 

Sylvain presses his lips into a thin line. He doesn’t have an answer, Mercedes realizes. 

“Come on then,” Mercedes tries to pull his bulk off the ground to no avail. 

“Huh?” he says for the second time. 

Mercedes places her hands on her hips and sighs. “We have to get into your room and you out of those clothes.” 

That seems to do it for him and he stands up and nods with renewed vigor. “Of course, gorgeous. Anything you say.” 

“Great. You have clean, dry clothes, right? I can take these ones to laundry and pick up something for you to eat also. There might still be soup from last night in the kitchen and if not...” she trails off into a list of possible food choices while walking towards the dorms.

“Huh?” Sylvain frowns as her words sink in. “Oh, okay,” he says, his disappointment obvious, but nonetheless, he follows after her. 

…

Solitary is a new concept to Mercedes, although it feels intimately familiar. Whether it was her younger brother, the nuns of the church, or just Annette sharing the same bunk, Mercedes has grown used to having someone nearby. The academy is different, though. Her room is for her and her alone, and at times it can be hard to push the emptiness of the shadows to the side, no matter how much she reaches out to the Goddess. 

When a familiar sleeplessness overtakes her, she tiptoes her way to the cathedral. The statues of the saints and paintings on the wall feel close enough to company. She closes her eyes to bad memories and instead fills the space with conversation to the Goddess. 

The sound of feet on marble breaks her concentration. With a small leap of her heart, she turns in surprise as another person enters the cathedral. 

It takes a second for the figure to step into the moonlight and become visible, and even when he does, it’s an odd enough sight that her brain doesn’t fully comprehend it for a moment longer. 

“Sylvain?” she’s hesitant when calling his name.

He doesn’t listen. His eyes are thin slits, only open enough to navigate a path to the same pew they both know intimately by now. Even as he moves, there is no recognition in him. He doesn’t look at her when she says his name. He doesn’t even acknowledge that she exists. 

He’s asleep, she realizes.

She takes cautious steps towards him, worried that if she comes too near that it may startle him, or something worse. She doesn’t want to disturb him, so she watches instead. 

Sylvain stops in front of the pew and stands still for a long moment. Then, without any cue that Mercedes can make out, he kneels onto the cold marble floor. He folds his fingers over top each other and bows his head. 

It’s a gesture Mercedes can recognize anywhere; It’s an act of prayer. 

It lasts no longer than a minute. He finishes his prayer, and with fatigue weighing heavy on his shoulders, he ducks down beneath the pew to lay on his back and fall into a more peaceful slumber. 

It’s not like Mercedes can just abandon him, and it seems rude to awaken him. Instead, she props herself into a sitting position on top of the pew, crossing her ankles and resting her head against the hardwood backing. A quick rest for her eyes, otherwise she’ll just keep watch until she can lead him back to the safety of his room in the morning. 

…

This time it’s Mercedes that is woken up by someone else. With a gentle touch, she is shaken on her shoulder, a soft voice calling her name. Her eyes flutter open, and she’s surprised to find light brown ones staring back at her.

At some point she must have tipped over and curled into a more natural sleeping position, and she sits back up while straightening her skirt. 

“You’re awake!” she says cheerfully. 

“Yeah, I guess I am,” Sylvain fidgets awkwardly as he looks around and asks, “Were you here all night?”

“No, of course not,” Mercedes assures him. “Just most of it. I couldn’t sleep and then you were, well…” she gestures vaguely towards him and his sleeping attire. 

Sylvain groans while sitting next to her. “I’m sorry,” he says. “You should’ve gone back to bed.” 

“I couldn’t just abandon you,” she tells him. 

Sylvain exhales a laugh through his nose. “Thanks, Mercedes.” 

Mercedes smiles and brushes his hair from his eyes. She combs through it with her fingers, trying to get it to lay more natural than its current hurricane look, as Sylvain closes his eyes and sighs at her touch. 

“Sylvain, do you sleepwalk?” she asks. 

“No. Or not really. At least not since I was a kid,” he tells her. 

“I think you might have picked the habit back up,” her voice is quiet as she talks. The same soothing quality of honey laces through her words. 

“Ah,” he says. “I guess that would explain a lot.” 

It’s Mercedes's turn to laugh. She pulls him closer and allows him to rest his head on her shoulder. “It’s probably stress,” she informs him. “Professor Manuela should have something to help you sleep better, but that only fixes the sleepwalking.” 

“Yeah, I know.”

It’s comfortable to lie like this. Either he had fallen asleep without a shirt, or he had somehow lost it in his shambling trek over, but even in his half dressed state, Sylvain is still a furnace. The touch of his bare skin burns away any loneliness as his body heat seeps into hers.

“I didn’t know you were religious,” Mercedes breaks the quiet. 

It’s the wrong thing to say apparently, and Sylvain looks at her confused. “I’m not?” he tells her. “I mean it’s cool that you are, I’m just not very–uh, you know?” 

She pats him on his knee, letting him know that it’s fine and that she understands. “Sorry, it’s just that last night when I saw you, it looked like you were praying.” 

…

There was no hope in Sylvain winning the argument that he doesn’t need to be escorted back to his room, and with a resigned sigh followed by a pout, he allows himself to be led back to his dorm room. 

As soon as his bed is in sight, he falls back on it with a heavy thump and stretches long muscles as he yawns.

Mercedes pulls open one of his drawers in search of something clean. “You should change your clothes. They’re probably dirty and–”

“Oh, you do  _ not _ want to look in there,” he cringes.

Mercedes takes his word for it and closes the drawer without peaking. 

“I feel like I could sleep for ten thousand years,” he says when Mercedes pads her way back to him. In the same manner one might care for a sick patient or child, she pushes his legs to be fully on the bed, and pulls the covers over top of him. 

“Too hot,” he tries to squirm out from under them, but Mercedes is persistent in tucking him in.

“You slept in the cold all night, you should stay warm,” she nags him. 

It’s futile to argue, so instead he wraps his fingers around her wrist, and tugs. “So did you,” Sylvain reminds her while she sits on the bed beside him. “You really didn’t have to stay all night.” 

She brushes cool fingers against Sylvain cheek, a placating motion as she hums in acknowledgement of his statement. 

“Are you having trouble sleeping too?” Sylvain asks as he yawns. 

“Sometimes the nights are lonely,” she tells him. “But that’s okay. If I need company then I can just pray to the Goddess.” 

Sylvain chuckles. It’s not mean, he’s not making fun. It’s a fond noise. 

The longer Mercedes weaves her fingers through his hair, that she strokes the side of his face, and hums a gentle, unrecognizable tune, the more Sylvain relaxes. Worry falls away, and in its place warm contentment makes a home. 

“When I was a kid, I was religious,” his voice is thick with sleep. His words are strung along with slow care as he struggles to keep his eyes open. “Pray before dinner. Pray with my mom before bed. Pray when everything hurts. It was stupid. It never did me any good.” 

She rubs her thumb across the light remains of a small scar marking his temple. “I’m sorry to hear that, Sylvain.”

“It’s fine,” he says even though it isn’t. “If you ever need something other than the Goddess though, then I’m here. I’m always here for you, Mercedes.” 

She cups his cheeks with both hands, and he closes his eyes with a content sigh. With a slow grace she presses a kiss against his forehead. And then another. And another. Until she is holding still with her forehead pressed against his and listening to the sound of him drifting to sleep. 

**Author's Note:**

> My twitter is [here](https://twitter.com/biheretic)


End file.
